Open My Eyes

Pinpoints in this relationship
are corneas for the indulgent,
those thoughts I harbored
as I stole from my own coffers,
believing them yours,
believing them rightfully mine.
I carried on, bending to a rule
that distance should be pinned
only by tempting opportunity;
thus I sewed dependent roots
and a tethered foundation,
wanting our minds tethered,
first believing my mind severed.

And I see my mistake,
in believing in my version of events
sediments of loneliness,
ere treasured sorrows.
It is evolution that has lit up
the hallways of my mind
to the reflections of shame.
I owe myself the attention I'd paid
to the wounded you I'd made.
I'm thankful it is as it is,
though it hurt, it was because
I'd kept my eyelids shut to
the world within without.

Procaryote

I was about to punish myself for the horrible
transgressions that I had committed, fighting
with my sanity for my sanity,
but then came the sword, down upon all
I held as mine, my dreams, wants,
and paperclipped people, all frayed
beyond recognition, tassels whispering
in the wind - forwards, not back -

I didn't kill myself that day,
for what went down in the ring
was more than a jewel's worth of
precious, and what I learned, my lesson,
what I'd been solemnly swatting for
the past nineteen and a half years,
had come, bearing with it an empty sack
of shoddy patchwork but within it, promised,
the promise, that it was fuller than
the superlative of what I had been yearning for.

Tucked away, I rose from my problems,
as a phoenix, sans the fire, sans the ash,
sans the smoke and mirrors and stampede of
interest into the egg that I had hatched from.
I flew, without wings, without anyone in particular
looking out for my inexistent blazing trail in the sky.
I beat no wings, I beat all odds,
I scoured and developed and penetrated
and found hope beneath my preening brothers,
fawns of the new day,
depth-receptive and drowsy.

I fell out of that yonder's dream,
whipped by a cloud into the obscurity of a concrete
path by a creek, flowing downstream as
water doesn't comprehend, but just does,
and I watched it, from my dead perch, where it went.

It never happened. It never will.
My will's not meant to take me any place but home.
So I say I flew, I have defeated and triumphed,
and I disregard the order of events to impress,
yet, even this, now, doesn't satisfy.

The moments pass, the moment remains.

Inbetween No Man's Land

Un enfant tient au gaz d'échappement. Il le respire et le gaz voyage à travers son cerveau aux fins minuscules de rue, de monde, d'endroit connu et de lieu imaginaire. C'est le chocolat chaud qui frappe les nuages, et la pensule avec laquelle on mange la soupe.

And if by any chance one would listen to words as if they were drenched and leaked off the page into the estuary of someone's palm, maybe that someone close by who had auditory nerves enfleshed into their fingertips, one would realise that sense is not made by the chorus of the crowd but by the imagery of the spark that desires to make. But it can't make what it wants, only what it must. However, it can only make what it must when it is what it wants. The first part of the first statement is then not true, and we have an argument where logic takes a seat and watches bored in a corner on a fold-out chair. Shenanigans. So far, the lines have been blurred little, but the sense has not been made. Or has it? Do you get it yet? As you sit in your chair, are you comprehending that what I am writing here is not what I am writing here? And can you also see that no one is writing, that it's all been done, thought, processed, dried, revered, clasped, probed and pieced before you even sat down? Can you see I am being self-conscious? Can you really see anything?

Et nous arrivons ici avec beaucoup de temps pour réflechir et penser à tout ce que ne fait rien. Désolé si je semble existentialiste. Je viens d'être étonné par la guerre entre moi et moi-même, encore. Encore, ça survit. Mais aujourd'hui je me rends compte que c'est bizarre. Ce n'est pas naturel. Ce conflit... c'est tout dans mon esprit, avec des aspects mis en lumière de temps en temps dans mon monde.

This place is dark. It sucks. The corner shadows of the mind in which fear rests restless seem to be static to the ephemeral attempts to think them out. Glorious syntax, will you please unfurl? I don't like praying to doorways. So can there not be so much inbetween? Because it's just so darn confusing. Clarity, please turn on the light. I know you're in the room somewhere and just too obvious to see. I want to see you now, c'est-à-dire, I want to see. Properly. Truly.

In light.
En lumière.

It all comes back to the man in the mirror. I fight and blame someone else and then learn to forgive them and myself. And it all circles back to me. Ultimately though, the biggest fight I can have is with myself, my ego. Against nothing.

And because this doesn't make sense, I am watching it dissolve into the light.

Broken Mirrors

There are pieces lying broken
Of the glass I smashed today.
There are keepers of a secret
Turning their hurt heads away
Because it's painful,
Because it's hate.
Because there's pieces lying broken
And there's wounds we've yet to mend.

There are voices on the streets
That scream something rather sad
At the people walking, walking by
Like zombies in a silent lullaby.
Heads down, they weep
For a moment of bliss
They seek. They aren't given a chance
So they won't give one to you.

Children, broken mirrors,
They'll be shattered to the end
Hoping setting the world on fire
Will somehow bring forgiveness.
Teach them how to fail
At expressing how they feel.
Teach them hate is love
And lies you still struggle to believe.

Together alone, we continue to fear
That the pain of sacrifice will e'er be here,
Seen in the cross, in compromise, in war,
Children wonder if it's worth fighting for.
Are they wrong to question it?
Is there love to ease their hurt
Or are they shattered syllables
Of words we bend, strangle and twist
To fashion the false into existence?
Well we might be artists,
But lies reign in an abyss.

Broken mirrors, violins sound,
Death inside a precarious mound
Shapes their will, so precious and raw
Among the children they hold a flaw.
Against themselves and their others
Against their parents and brothers,
They strike a shard, to ease the pains
That leaks out of their veins
And into city alleyways and streets
They bleed to hear their own heartbeats.